


i have never been forgiven for wanting

by saintsurvivor



Category: Stitches - Samantha Simard
Genre: Alcohol, Blood and Injury, Hurt Jim Wolfe, Idiots in Love, M/M, Major Character Injury, Nightmares, previous injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:08:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28989021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintsurvivor/pseuds/saintsurvivor
Summary: Instead of all the questions bubbling up in the back of his throat, Jim simply reaches his hand out again, and swallows the burn at the back of his throat when Sebastian doesn’t hesitate, only reaches back, pressing his fingers to the steady pulse point of Jim’s wrist.
Relationships: Jim Wolfe/Sebastian Codreanu
Comments: 3
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlackVultures](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackVultures/gifts).



This isn’t the first time Jim’s had to stitch himself up. 

Far from the first time, really. He’s lost count between the numerous times he’s had this happen; between bullets and blades, blood and bruises, he’s got everything covered. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

He manages to contain his facial flinch, releasing a slow exhale but he can’t stop the way his stomach jolts, jumps as he slowly, carefully slips the curved needle through his torn skin, slick with blood, thinks it’s going to need at least eight, ten stitches. Inhales just as slowly, feeling the sick _pulling_ of the black thread, swallows down the whiskey and bile threatening to make a reappearance. Just his luck, to have to re clean and stitch himself back up again because he ralphed over everything.

Can’t help the shudder, how his toes curl up in his shoes, swallows heavily as he tucks the needle through his skin once more, feels his stomach roil, manages to shove down the urge to heave through sheer force of will.

He has to take a moment, tries to will his hands from shaking, to shove the darkness he can feel creeping up on him like a bad hangover. Has to bite the inside of his mouth to shreds as he has to readjust his hand, feels the needle slipping through his fingers, clenches his eyes until he can feel the slow drip of his tears down his cheek, catching on the cliff of his jaw.

The needle, slick and sick feeling, passes through, feels the slightest resistance of skin, how it makes the needle slip an inch through his fingers. God he is going to ralph, and then then probably pass out, and he’ll land face first in his own puke and Sebastian or Scarlett will find him and never let him live it down. Either that or he’ll wake up before they get here and then he’ll _still_ have to stitch himself up and _then_ clean up the vomit.

Ugh.

“You’re a _mess_ , Wolfe.” A soft voice says, and Jim’s head lolls backwards onto the no doubt ruined couch, gives a sloppy grin, whiskey drenched, blood splattered.

“S’why I got you, isn’t it?” A scoff, and Sebastian is in front of him, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed. He looks pissed off, worried. 

Hands on his thighs, warm and big, Jim leans into them, wants to lean forward to smooth the furrow between the other’s eyebrows, wants to fit his mouth against Sebastian’s. Wonders what would happen if he did, what would he taste like? What sounds would he make? Would he let Jim lick into his mouth, curve a hand around his jaw, pull him closer, never to let him go?

“What am I to do with you?” Sebastian sighs, but there’s an edge to his voice that makes Jim lean backwards, clench a hand around Sebastian’s. His free hand takes the needle away from Jim. “Your stitching is shoddy, Wolfe, honestly. Like a child.”

Sebastian can call him a child all he wants, Jim thinks dizzily, watches the crown of his head move, the slow coil of his shoulders. So long as he stays with him.


	2. Chapter 2

Jim couldn’t say what had woken him up. 

Only that he goes from a deep sleep, dreams of slowly drowning, of reaching upwards to touch only loneliness and a pool of blood slowly disintegrating until the ceiling of his bedroom comes into view, dizzy and blurred. He’s on his back, slowly blinking the cobwebs of the insidious nightmare away, trying to figure out what _did_ wake him.

A soft touch to his bare hip, shorts having ridden down just a little, just where his small bandage and stitches are, makes him jump, but it’s the soft noise, hurt and vulnerable, has him up and moving. Swings his legs out, grunting a little at the pull of his stitches, the whiskey and pain relief that Sebastian had practically forced on him having fled. 

Sebastian is huddled against the very edge of the bed, he’s still and silent, in a way that Jim _knows_ means that he’s had a bad night, that he’s dreaming of things that he very rarely tells Jim about, and if he does, it’s only like this, in the cover of night, where nothing can get to him with Jim there, or breath smelling vaguely like the whiskey Sebastian hates but drinks like he’s drowning whenever he gets like this.

It hurts, something deep inside that feels like it’s shattering, inside Jim. To see Sebastian, his Bash, so hurt and angry and _vulnerable_. Often thinks that if someone had told him that he’d be so far gone on a Codreanu he’d have laughed so fuckin’ hard.

Sebastian makes another noise in the back of his throat, just as tiny, just as hurt, everything Sebastian never is in his day to day life, his suit of armour so well welded to him that it often takes a crowbar to get beneath his skin in a way that truly matters, though the wrong things often cut through. 

Jim stays where he is, sees where the crescent moon strafes into the room through the crooked curtain, alighting upon the tensed curve of Sebastian’s shoulder. 

“Bash,” Jim says quietly, doesn’t dare to touch. He’s had his fair share of nightmares, of terrors, of waking screaming and gasping, hands a fist and violence the first answer because it was the question as well. “ _Bash_ , wake up.”

Sebastian only lets out a trembling noise, something that Jim would think to call a whimper. He kicks a leg out softly, feels the steady line of burning by his stitches as the movement pulls at his stitches. Thinks he would slice them, let himself bleed dry if it meant Sebastian was alright. He doesn’t tell Bash that often, though, likes to say that it would be Sebastian that would get embarrassed, but really-

Scarlett doesn’t call him a stupid idiot for nothing, after all.

“ _Sebastian_ ,” Jim tries, harder, louder. Sebastian’s hands fit against his chest, fingers twitching, curling in on themselves. He’s cut marks into his palms with how tight his fingers clench. Jim doesn’t dare get closer, not with how Sebastian’s muscles are tensing, shuddering beneath the goosebumping of his skin. His eyes roll beneath the thin skin of his eyelids. “ _Bash!”_

Sebastian startles awake, gets himself up on one arm with a breathless gasp, eyes wide in the moonlight that’s the only thing that lights up the room. Jim stays where is he, perched on the edge of the bed. Something in Sebastian’s eyes is haunted, he looks hunted too, like a rabbit in the scope of a shotgun, or a deer in the midst of headlights, knowing he won’t survive the oncoming crash.

“Hey,” Jim says, soft, coaxing, reaches a hand out. Sebastian is iffy on touch after a nightmare, never quite sure if he wants touch or needs to be far away, needing the air, the room. “You’re okay, Bash, you’re at my place, yeah?”

Sebastian nods, almost mindlessly. The heave of his chest is slowly some, sweat damp with his shirt - _Jim’s_ shirt, actually - clinging to him. He’s staring at Jim like he’s never saw him before, wide eyed, mouth dropped open.

Instead of all the questions bubbling up in the back of his throat, Jim simply reaches his hand out again, and swallows the burn at the back of his throat when Sebastian doesn’t hesitate, only reaches back, pressing his fingers to the steady pulse point of Jim’s wrist.

 _Oh_ , Jim thinks, sadly. Grips Sebastians hand back, thinks of blood and needles, and how Sebastian had kissed him, open mouthed, whiskey soaked, over the open gash of his belly, one hand holding the needle and the other holding the cliff of Jim’s trembling jaw, as if neither wanted to ever let go.

“I’m okay, Bash,” Jim murmurs, slips closer, brings his other hand up, to clasp the back of Sebastian’s nape, squeezes it a little, feels how Sebastian’s pulse _jumps. “_ It’s okay, Bash, I’m here.”

Sebastian falls into his arms, head against his breast bone, a hand across his heart.

“You’re not allowed to get hurt again.” He says, just as quietly as he’d awoken. His hand clenches, nails digging into the skin of Jim’s chest. He winces at the starburst ache, but doesn’t move. 

“I’ll try.” He says, and Sebastian snorts sardonically, but he doesn’t move. They lie there, breathing softly, moonlight touching upon their hips, wishing they could stay there for just a little longer.


End file.
